Made Flesh
by Hunsdon
Summary: "He believes her when she says she's never torn a picture of a dress out of a bridal magazine, but there's a spark sometimes . . . Even lately when she's drifting along, so unhappy, there's still a spark sometimes." 2-shot set just after "Need to Know" (6 x 03); a companion piece to my 3-shot "Of Revelation." COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Title: Made Flesh, Ch. 1

WC: ~1200, this chapter

Summary: "He believes her when she says she's never torn a picture of a dress out of a bridal magazine, but there's a spark sometimes. When they lie awake in the dark, and she talks about the music she wants. The way she hums it and the smile he can hear when she grouses about having to help her dad with his cufflinks and what flowers, exactly, are acceptable for boutonnières. Even lately when she's drifting along, _so _unhappy, there's still a spark sometimes." 2-shot set just after "Need to Know" (6 x 03)

A/N: A two-shot follow-up to my story "Of Revelation." I don't think you need to have read that first, but of course, I'd appreciate it. This is what I _thought _I was writing when I started that.

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><p>"Children show scars like medals.<p>

Lovers use them as secrets to reveal.

A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh."

— Leonard Cohen

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><p>He's in on it. Operation Dress. He's <em>sort of <em>in on it. Lanie calls, and that's surprising. That she's calling _his _phone, and he's so braced for impact these days that he slinks off to the study to take it.

She tells him it's happening, that it's the best possible thing for Beckett right now. Getting her out of the loft. Getting her mind on something else. He cowers, worried that the too-bright smile he flashed will have Kate come looking any says _yes _to things in hushed tones. _Yes, _all three of them are home. _Yes _his mother's had to reschedule classes, thanks to the renovations at her studio. _Yes _Alexis is around and—as usual, lately—apparently not up to much.

Lanie doesn't really leave room to say anything else. She has it all planned out and it's too complicated on his side, anyway. Alexis isn't exactly herself. Kate is reeling. His mother's business-as-usual fluttering around is _not _the morale booster she seems to think it is. There's too much else to say, and he doesn't know how to make a start. He doesn't know how to say that this might not be a good idea at all. And it's not as if he has a better one.

So he's in on it. He smiles and stalls them. He plays up the conspiracy and tries to keep it light. He kisses Kate and whispers, _It's good. It's really good, I promise, _when she holds tight to his hand and says his name like she's far away and falling and she needs him to keep her close.

He shoos her out the door, the three of them crowding together in the hall, calling to her. Beckoning. He kisses her and tries not to let the lost look she casts him over her shoulder break his heart.

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><p>He's all nerves all day. As soon as the door closes behind them, he wants to chase after her. He wants to sweep her up and run off with her. He wants to give her a homecoming less miserable than this one. To take her away and write her a hundred books. To lay her down somewhere quiet and whisper all the extraordinary truths about her until she's whole enough to hear them again.<p>

He wants to save her from the wrong thing, but the elevator is bumping shut by the time he acts on the impulse to wrench the door open. She's gone. They're all gone, and he's alone with his nerves.

Lanie means well. He thinks—he _knows_—they all do. He knows that however tone deaf his mother can be, and whatever's going on with Alexis, they love Kate and this is a happy thing. Somewhere in the chaos of Pi and Kate being back so strangely and suddenly, it's a happy thing, them getting married. Everyone means well, but this feels like the wrong thing.

She's badly hurt. Losing the DC job—losing it the way she did—has her fractured in ways and places she's only just figuring out. The wounds are deep enough that all she can do is skim the surface.

She's not exactly a paycheck away from the gutter, with or without him, but money is something she can grab on to. Something she _has _grabbed on to and worried to death this last little while. Wedding dresses, upscale boutiques—it feels like the wrong thing. Price tag upon price tag and a mounting total he knows she won't stop thinking about, however little sense it makes.

It feels like the wrong thing, and he hates the idea that this might ruin it for her. He moans and drags his feet about wedding plans. He plays it up, because he's desperate to distract her, and it works sometimes.

She doesn't have a notebook with sprawling handwriting and the name of the groom crossed out again and again and again. He believes her when she says she's never torn a picture of a dress out of a bridal magazine, but there's a spark sometimes. When they lie awake in the dark, and she talks about the music she wants. The way she hums it and the smile he can hear when she grouses about having to help her dad with his cufflinks and what flowers, exactly, are acceptable for boutonnières. Even lately when she's drifting along, _so _unhappy, there's still a spark sometimes.

He doesn't want to ruin that, and he's all nerves at the idea of Alexis hanging back and his mother trying too hard. At Lanie taking charge, and the three of them trying to _will _her into this, when it feels like the the wrong thing.

He doesn't want to ruin it. He hopes they haven't.

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><p>The calm is the last thing he expects. It makes him . . . not nervous, exactly. Curious. It makes him curious, how the three of them have their heads together as they quietly make their way inside.<p>

"Hey!" He calls out too loudly. He's stranded, half rising from the couch. He gets three variations on an eye roll for his trouble.

His mother is the first to break off the comfortable little knot of them. She steps away from Kate and Alexis and some moment in progress between them. She drifts by him on her way upstairs.

"It went well, darling," she murmurs as she drops a kiss on his cheek in passing. "A lovely day."

He nods, wordless with relief. Surprised by her quiet tone and grateful for the truth it lends the words._ It went well. _He looks back toward the hall and away again. Kate's smiling, and Alexis's hand is on the railing, like she's just going. Like they're parting better friends than they have been.

He sits, trying to go back to whatever he's been pretending to read all these hours. He means to wait for one or the other of them to come to him. To tell him what this is. Or not tell him. He means to wait. To be fine with it, one way or another, but it's kind of agony, the calm not withstanding. He's torn between wanting to know and feeling like an interloper. Worrying how fragile this particular calm might be.

Alexis does go, then. She rounds the corner quickly, smiling to herself, like she has some kind of plan. He wonders for an aching moment what it is. He misses her. He misses his kid, even when they're pushing past each other in the kitchen with cool nods and no conversation.

But he's glad for this. For whatever's come to pass between them and left this behind. Calm when he didn't expect it. He's glad when he looks up. When he comes out of his reverie and Kate is dropping into his lap with her arms loose around his neck.

"Hey," she says, like it's not a belated answer.

"Hey." He hooks his arms under her knees to pull her closer. He shoves his book away. "Forgive me?"

"For plotting against me?" Her hands are quick. She tweaks his ear. "Maybe."

"It was good, though." He bats her fingers away, ducking to catch her earlobe with his teeth. "My mother can't keep a secret, you know."

"It was good," she agrees, though it's not so simple as that. She closes her eyes and rests against him. It went well, but she's weary, even so.

"Good," he says and bites his tongue. He wants badly to ask, but he'd rather she tell, and this is enough for now.

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><p>AN: Second chapter later today or tomorrow. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Made Flesh, Ch. 2

WC: ~1300, this chapter; ~2500 total

Summary: "She smiles at him in the mirror. Something small that stays, even though it's solemn. She's in the short, silk robe he loves, but it's loose at her shoulders. The sash droops in a half-tied bow like she's just slipped it on and tugged it open again. She's staring at herself, searching for something." Second chapter of a 2-shot set just after "Need to Know" (6 x 03)

A/N: And where this ends up is where this story started in my head. Sorry for the circuitous route.

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><p>"Children show scars like medals.<p>

Lovers use them as secrets to reveal.

A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh."

— Leonard Cohen

* * *

><p>The calm lasts. It deepens.<p>

Alexis tugs Pi off somewhere. She pushes him out the door, then runs back in. She crashes into Castle with a sideways hug and a whispered _Bye, Dad _that he's still blinking about when the door slams behind her again.

His mother is . . . around. She wafts down the stairs and back up, singing to herself, but it's toned down like something's been set right with her, too. Like he's the only one at loose ends here.

Kate's soaking in the tub. _Scrubbing away the fake rose petals,_ she'd said. He'd wrinkled his nose and lunged after her, offering to help. She'd laughed all the way to the bedroom. He could hear her laughing even after she'd closed the door on him, and he still half wants to give chase. More than half.

He settles for the bed, though. He stretches out, propped up, and scrolls through things he needs less than half a mind for. He's content to listen to her, splashing and settling. To picture the way she shimmies the drain up just a little with her toes and opens the tap again, greedy for the endless stream of hot water.

He's content, though she's a long time about it, even for her. Even after he hears the long gurgle of the last of the water draining way, she's a long time about it. He listens for the tell-tale sounds that mean the door will open soon. That she'll glide out, beautiful and soft and a little dreamy, with the damp rope of her hair twisted over one shoulder.

He listens long enough that his nerves start to gnaw again. He remembers her going heavy against him, and she's long enough about it that he loses faith in the calm. He makes his way up from the bed to brush his fingers against the door. Taps a little more boldly. It brings nothing, though he knows she's just on the other side. He twists the handle, reluctant, but uneasy enough that he'd welcome sharp words if that's his fate.

"Kate?"

She smiles at him in the mirror. Something small that stays, even though it's solemn. She's in the short, silk robe he loves, but it's loose at her shoulders. The sash droops in a half-tied bow like she's just slipped it on and tugged it open again. She's staring at herself, searching for something.

"Do you hate it?" Her tone is curious. As soft and inquisitive as the question is terrible.

He steps behind her, palms gentle at her shoulders. He meets her gaze in the glass. Holds it steady. Whatever she's asking—and he really doesn't know—the answer's the same. "There is _nothing _in this mirror that I hate."

She twists her head sharply, up and back to look at him. He's at a loss at first. He doesn't know what it's for, but it catches him, then. She thinks he's being a smart ass. That he would be right now, with that searching look on her face.

It's a painful little kick at his ribs, but he moves past it. He ducks down. He hides his face behind her as best he can and turns her back toward the mirror. It's a funny image. Ridiculous, with his broad shoulders poking out on either side of her, but he'll use it, whether he really knows what she's asking or not. The answer's the same.

"Nothing, Kate." He rises up, dragging his cheek over the bare skin of her shoulder as he tugs the fabric aside. "Nothing."

She closes her eyes and leans into him. She draws his arms around her waist and folds her own on top. They stand there with the fragrant steam cooling around them, still and calm a while, before her fingers wrap around his. She draws them up and up until his palm rests over her scar.

It startles him. Not the fact of it. Not that at all. He knows its contours exactly. He knows and loves the feel of it as well as any part of her. It startles him to realize _this _is what she's asking. To realize what the day must have been like for her, though he never even thought of it. How it would be to have strange hands and prying eyes on her. The burden of it all, smiling for Lanie and his mother. Alexis—God, _Alexis_. Pretending like it's nothing for all of them. He never even thought of it.

"How could I hate it?" He draws his hand down. He traces a fingertip around and over it. He leaves it behind and draws the backs of his fingers along the inside of her breast. "How could I?"

"How can you _not_?" She turns to face him. It's swift and clumsy, like she wants it to be a demand. Like she wants the words to have more fire than they do, but they're weary. They're small.

"I hate . . ." He dips his head. A brush of lips and apology over the rough terrain of it. "I hate the memory. That glint off the scope. The sound of the shot. You fa . . . falling." That's hard. Saying it out loud is hard and he has to still his own hand. He has to keep it from tugging the silk of her robe together. Hiding it. He leans in again. He says the words to the scar itself. "I hate that."

She doesn't quite laugh. She smiles though. Solemn, again. More solemn than anything. She touches her thumb to his lips. A sweeping caress, like she wants him to go on, so he does.

"I hate thinking of you in pain." He pulls her close. One arm tight around her shoulders and his hand splayed wide over sternum and ribs. Blood-warm skin on skin. "I hate that you were stubborn and alone and I was . . ." He covers her mouth with his, a kiss as fierce as the one that carried her back against his front door the night of the storm. "I hate that part of it."

She moans into his mouth, something anguished and wanting both. "Me, too. I hate that part."

He pulls away from her, panting a little. Not quite so calm, but he needs to finish. This is what she's asking, and he needs her to hear.

"I hate things about it." He catches her jaw with light fingers and tips her face up. "But I love it as much as any part of you." He kisses the corner of her mouth. "I love that all the time we've been together . . ." He glides his lips down her neck. He pushes the robe from her shoulders and tugs at the sash. He lets it fall to the floor. He steps back and holds her at arm's length a moment. ". . . you've never hidden it from me." He turns her back toward the mirror and wraps himself around her. "I love that it reminds me how strong you are, and how brave."

Her eyes are closed. Her head falls forward a little. He feels the breath shivering through her. He feels how weary she is and keeps his peace.

"Thanks," she says after a while. Her eyes are still closed, but her lips curve in a smile and she rests easier against him. "That sounds . . . good."

"Do you?" He takes her fingers this time. He lays her palm over it and adds his own. "Do you hate it?"

She's quiet long enough that he's not sure she'll answer, and he's fine with that. It's all enough for now. But when her eyes open, they're bright. There's a spark, almost like she's laughing. Like he's been telling lies and she believes him a little.

"Sometimes." She shrugs at herself in the mirror, then rolls her shoulders back. She stands tall. Her skin is pink and gold and beautiful all over. "Sometimes, not so much."

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><p>AN: Thanks for reading.


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